


Blue

by Chromi



Series: Deuce-centric [18]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Biting, Blood, Chains, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Morality, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pay attention to the tags, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, this is not nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromi/pseuds/Chromi
Summary: "The Whitebeards were not famed for their charity. Not when it counted.Honor and respect; the single most important aspects of their rule over the seas, over their territories. All challenges were met in the same manner, always. No exceptions. No slack given in the reins pulled tight over their command.No mercy.The Spade pirates were no different."Or;What if the Whitebeard pirates were more "piratey"? More horrific? More detestable?
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Masked Deuce
Series: Deuce-centric [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576678
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about 10 days ago after being inspired by another work, and have spent the whole time since debating whether to post this anonymously, or even at all. In my opinion it isn't that bad (considering some of the works that exist online), but we all know that the Internet does so love twisting knives into wounds and forgetting that just because someone writes about an awful, dreadful subject, it doesn't mean that they support or even enjoy it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't condone rape. I don't condone any of the actions in this fic, and can't put myself in the mindset of someone who would. I am able to separate fiction from reality. If you aren't, then maybe don't read this. I've tagged appropriately and expect readers to take note of them. This fic is essentially an experiment for me to see if I can write about this subject.

The Whitebeards were not famed for their charity.

Not when it counted.

Honor and respect; the single most important aspects of their rule over the seas, over their territories. All challenges were met in the same manner, always. No exceptions. No slack given in the reins pulled tight over their command.

 _No mercy_.

The Spade pirates were no different.

The Spade pirates – a crew of thirty nobodies – headed by the most arrogant child the Whitebeard fleet had ever clapped eyes on.

From the moment Marco saw him – saw _them_ , the semi-conscious captain held up by the terrified _(furious?)_ first mate – he knew his fate.

Fire Fist Ace – the captain with an ego of disproportional size versus what he _deserved_ to wield in conjunction with his flames and vanity – was to die by Whitebeard's hand.

Die, or join them.

Die, or add to their power; swell their ranks further, cannibalizing and absorbing the rookie crew to sate the hunger of the monster Yonkou crew.

It was a choice of death of title, of honor, of _dignity_ —

or it was visceral death wrought through splintered bones, smashed skulls, tongues cut from throats and fed to the Sea Kings, leaving the amateurs to writhe scarlet in a pool of their own regret.

It was their choice. This was the extent of Whitebeard's benevolence: let _them_ choose their grand exit from center stage on the Spadille.

Either way, whichever option that fool of a captain landed on, Marco, as diligent first mate – as Whitebeard's right hand – was going to have his own _personal_ brand of fun first.

Whether they lived or died was of no concern to him, so long as the more depraved itch of the human soul was scratched before they perished.

 _Or after_ , Marco had thought with a sickening smirk when that fierce little captain of theirs fell to his knees before Whitebeard, his crew shielded by his circle of fire and protective arms of the first mate both.

_I'm not above debasing a corpse at this point, really._

* * *

Flames burn bright in his eyes on the clang of the cell door slamming shut.

Blue.

Blazing, defiant blue with a hint of smoky gray twisted in there. Fury trembling treacherously along veins of terror – veins that stand prominent through pale skin, marred only where the shackles tug tight to dye crimson around his wrists.

Marco thinks humorously of how fruitlessly this man has struggled – how, had he simply shut up and stayed down when requested oh _so_ nicely (for Marco was a _kind, benevolent_ type of pirate, oh yes, he was), then the need to chain him at all would not have presented itself as such.

Fingers find throat in the semi-darkness, clenching tight into carotids that _sing_ with the enticing flutter of pure, unfiltered fear.

Ah, his prey is so _sweet_ tonight. A perfectly easy catch; a wondrous gift to find flinging itself at him of its own accord for a change, all snarling feral and guarding that rash idiot of a captain that the lot of them seem to adore beyond understanding. Through careful observation over the last hour or so, Marco has been able to determine that this crew are not unlike his own. That this crew – small, strong, savage when scared – do not know what it means to abandon and to flee.

And the first mate – the man he has shackled both to wall and to shame – is the most telling of the lot. The one who fought back to remain beside Dear Captain in Whitebeard’s shadow. A fool.

A man not unlike Marco himself.

The bob of a poorly suppressed swallow under his palm near on forces Marco into action, muses and sly smile slipping like sap to drain from the cell in the bowels of the Moby.

He does so _love it_ when they think they can withstand him.

“I won't treat you gently,” he promises, stepping in close, closer, sliding into place to rut already hard against the body that thrums with that uniquely delicious panic that only prey ever exhibits. “In fact, you may well begin to wish you'd allowed me to grant you the mercy I tried to show, and beg for me to kill you.”

Deuce, the first mate of the Spade pirates – Marco's _equal_ , he had drawled in goading delight on snapping talons to shoulders and forcing he _stayed_ when Fire First had fallen – at least _tries_ to snarl in retaliation. It always is so much _better_ when that flame of rebellion refuses to die until the very last moment.

“ _Disgusting_ ,” Deuce hisses, and, ah, _wonderful,_ there it is, that attempt to look viscerally appalled by Marco leaning in, teeth exposed, white as the bones he will snap and pick clean— “I'm not afraid of you.”

“You should be.” His teeth graze tauntingly along the line of the artery in Deuce's throat, yearning for blood and the sweetest, most gratifying tang of terror that only he could hunt, could ensnare, could _drink_. “You should be fearing for your life.”

He smells of fear, Marco takes enormous pleasure in discovering. Nose to curve of jaw and hands unbuckling both of their belts, Marco breathes him in like a drug injected to a vein. On palming between his legs he's soft, because of _course_ he is; but Marco presses thick and hot up against him, sighing into sweat-dampened hair, scratching claiming lines of bright, possessive red down throat, chest, abdomen.

Deuce exhales tremulously – sounds like he's putting everything he's got into not losing himself and panicking like Marco can _feel_ in his skin he is so close to doing.

“This is what you wanted, is it not?”

Deuce is tugged away from the wall where he is shackled, hips crushed to hips and lip bitten between his teeth hard enough to tear when his pants are roughly pulled down. A kiss – delicate, condescending – mouths tenderly to where Marco vividly fantasizes sinking teeth and talons both, heartbeat quivering under his lips—

“ _Not him_ , you cried,” Marco presses on, lording claim over his sacrifice through lines of beading blood, nails slicing down Deuce's waist, his hips, pinning deep into the curve of his ass, “ _please, don't hurt him_ , you wailed. _Take me, if you have to_ , you insisted like some kind of gallant knight in shining armor—”

He can't hold it back any longer – not when Deuce writhes in his hold, breath hitching into a high, terrified sound on his knee being grasped, hauled up, leg forced to wrap around and hold itself anchored to Marco's hip – and Marco _bites._

He's intoxicating; he's so sweet to the pad of Marco's tongue that Marco almost _laughs_.

Instead, he touches him, the fingers that don't busy themselves with clamping tight to Deuce's hip slipping down, down, back until he finds his hole.

A groan issues from Marco, mirroring Deuce's pained keen in a twisted sort of morbidity. Deuce _burns_ against his fingers, and Marco sinks into his body, touch dry and unprepared and every bit as hated by his prey as the rest of this self-indulgent ordeal has been.

“—and I don't think you stopped to consider what you were signing yourself up for.” His breath comes labored, because Deuce is unbelievably _tight_ around his fingers, clamping uncomfortably yet spilling the promise of an unimaginably good fuck. “Did you?” He thrusts in _hard_ , definitely hurting, absolutely stroking sure to Deuce's prostate that he repeats again and again and _again_ in a sinister performance of a lover pleasuring his partner.

“I knew,” Deuce's breath comes forced between teeth, shaky, _angry_ , “what you people are— are capable of.”

“Ah,” Marco sighs, teeth grazing to lobe and biting before the words spill and drip from his chin, “so you knowingly volunteered to get fucked like a whore before your whole crew? How very _noble_ of you.”

For the rest of the Spade crew – all bar captain, missing under the care of Thatch who preferred to look rather than touch – are unwilling spectators to Marco's show. Bound and gagged, every last one of them, in the largest of the holding cells yet free to witness through iron bars and the dank air of failure, held at gunpoint by the first division.

An audience, prepared for the sole reason of helping break down what Marco longs to destroy—

—and how he longs to grind that deplorable self-righteousness of this first mate's into dust and feed it back to him, fingers to tongue to uvula to the soft inside of the throat he aches to _tear_ —

“I knowingly volunteered,” Deuce hisses, “to protect my captain.”

Marco hates him to the point of contemplating killing him like this: turning fingers – those working over nerves that most unwillingly respond to his rough touch – into talons.

Turning talons inwards; upwards; slicing intimately into soft flesh and letting this man bleed out on his cock stuffed up to sigmoid.

But maybe another day.

Maybe later, when Deuce believes this is over and he can go back to standing guard over the captain that the crew have already decided will either join them, or die.

... Maybe later, when Marco is bored, and defiling what comes willingly to him loses its charm.

Marco hates him.

But Marco can't pretend he doesn't understand, doesn’t _respect_ , the sentiment, the urge that goes beyond comprehension, to protect his captain.

Deuce's other leg is lifted, his spine bowing away from the wall in an arch that might have been enticing for a lover to bear witness to under different circumstances.

“Tell me,” Marco mouths to his jaw, pressing thick against his heat and drowning in his bitter little grunt, “have you ever fucked your captain, First Mate?”

The chains clink over the sound of Deuce's teeth _grinding_ into rage.

“I would _never_ —” Deuce begins, but his body heat sears, trembling raw and exposed as if Marco had cut clean through his chest and wrapped his lips about his heart.

“Then,” Marco presses delicately, rocking against his perineum, salivating to his throat with how _badly_ he wants to _take_ and _break_ and lose the last vestiges of his humanity, “you've spread your legs for _him_ , instead?” His nails pierce the swell of Deuce's hips, digging deep, cutting clean and beautiful through skin, through fat, down into the surface of where that pride lies.

But he's wrong – he can feel it in Deuce's skin on mouthing a patronizing kiss to a blazing red cheek.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Marco chuckles, and it is that, _that_ , which makes furious, humiliated tears well up in Deuce's dark eyes, “no, you haven’t, have you... but you _do_ think about it, don't you?”

He deliberates for a moment, weighing up his options in the face of one so unlike his previous victims – _love_ of this breed rarely ever features on the menu, and yet now here it is, ready for slaughter and primed for desecrating to his very own enjoyment.

Deuce's lips are warm to Marco's as he kisses him, forcing Deuce’s jaw to open and lips to part under his rough direction.

He isn't gentle on breaching that tight, _tight_ hole with the head of his cock, either.

And Deuce _screams_.

Something tears; something tears and Deuce bleeds, wetting Marco's cock, making the slide into him that much easier. It's unimaginable, the tightness, the heat, the indefinably _satisfying_ knowledge that always accompanies every moment ever spent breaking his victims down to shells of people too hollowed to fight back.

It isn't pretty, the sound of anguish that is bitten into the curve of Marco's neck – but he takes it, phoenix fire erupting where Deuce sinks his teeth into flesh that cannot be damaged. He's illuminated, the tears tracking his cheeks shining like liquid diamond as he works his fingers into the chains binding him to the wall, nails splitting and bleeding.

It's all Marco can do not to unbind him, take him by the throat, and fuck him into the floor instead.

“Do you know what my favorite variety of arrogant little pirate is, First Mate?” Marco grins into Deuce's hair, nosing deep in a hateful display of false comfort amid the tears, the sobs. “I _love_ virgins like you. Always so useless on my cock, battling for breath and thinking they can take me without issue.” A hard slap up into Deuce illustrates his point; blood drips to his toes, warm, scorching him at his core with something _feral_. “You would have been better off keeping quiet and letting Fire Fist suffer me.”

The back of Deuce's skull bumps to the wall in silent provocation, complete with the fleeting wisp of a sneer.

“I won't let you touch him,” Deuce spits – literally – face twisted in a pained grimace. “I won't— _ever_ —let you near him, no matter what you do to me.”

His cry of pained surprise at a hard roll into him is stifled against Marco's tongue slipping past his teeth, silencing that loyalty dead in his throat.

The worst part is Marco almost _believes him_.

And that won't do.

He can’t accept anything outside of shivering terror and knees that buckle under the weight of all-consuming fear of him.

Marco hates him beyond all sensibility then; hates, above all, that victorious little _smirk_ he is sure he catches before primal instinct takes over at last.

Too-long canines sink into carotid properly – the world spins on its axis at that taste of Deuce's blood flooding Marco's senses – and the rest...

The rest is lost to the sensation of Deuce's body; Deuce's tears; Deuce's blood mixed with Marco's semen, smeared across his trembling abdomen, branding his property and laying his claim where this man’s captain shall never venture.


End file.
